


Mycroft and the adventure that required 'legwork'

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: Bamf!Croft, badassery, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:45:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is busy with army doctors, and Mycroft is forced to carry out his own 'legwork'. Prompt fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mycroft and the adventure that required 'legwork'

It was cases like these that overexerted him the most; left him feeling worn-out and overworked. Not because the criminal possessed an intelligence level that challenged his own, no, not that—it was something else entirely. It consisted of one word, an unpleasant word that always held the unwelcome promise of sweat, and the bitter taste of blood rising up from his lungs, permeating his mouth:

 _Legwork._ How he abhorred such a word, such an idea as running about the streets of London, legs pumping, arms flailing, and hair plastered to the sides of his head like the fur of a drowned rat.

But, as much as he raged against it, sometimes such a thing was unavoidable; especially when a certain younger brother was pettily refusing to be the legs of his older brother: even one who happened to be an important government official.

And in favour of time spent with a crippled army doctor, no less! The entire situation smarted and reeked of debauchery, in Mycroft’s opinion—something Sherlock seemed to be waist-deep in since his teen years.

But that was all water under the bridge for the moment, because, like it or not, legwork seemed to be the flavour of the night, and he was the one left to serve it. Lucky him indeed.

But perhaps legwork was not strong enough a word for what he was doing; leaping over fences; climbing fire escapes and wriggling between two-foot-wide side alleys—no, such things required their own word; another phrase entirely.

“Hellish,” Mycroft panted under his breath; as he heaved himself over another low fence—the third already, he’d been careful to count. His coat snagged on a loose splinter, and the soft tearing noise of fine fabric— _expensive_ fabric—had him scowling even darker. “Definitely the right word, _I’d_ say, for hell such as this.” Over the fence now, he was running again, polished black shoes thick with mud and grime from the less-than-sparkling streets of fair lady London. Ahead, the dark shadow of his quarry weaved and shuddered in the night, leaping aside from the taxi cabs and strolling strangers, diving wildly into yet another side alley. With a huffing sigh, Mycroft threw himself after the man, torn jacket flapping wildly behind him; he’d lost a button, sliding beneath a chain fence earlier, and his tie hung loose and undone, barely clinging to his neck by a fine sheen of sweat.

Perhaps he needed to start working out; if Sherlock continued to insist that Doctor John Watson’s time was much more important than that of his own brother, he might even be forced to.

The alley was a dead end, and he almost found himself praying to any answering deity or entity for such a break. He did mumble a quick ‘thank god’ under his panting breath, before slowing to a trot, and then to a walk, finally stopping several feet from his victim.

“Well—seems our chase comes to an end here, my friend.” He said smoothly, forcing the words past his heaving breath, forcing them to emerge level and controlled from his chapped lips. The shadow shifted, turning at an angle, as if to lunge forward and make its escape. Mycroft’s mouth quirked to the side, and he ignored his aching lungs as he casually straightened his ruined suit-jacket, one hand lazily pointing the gun he retrieved from his waist, the other tugging at his mud-stained tie.

“No more running tonight, I think.” He said in a soft, relaxed voice, and his thumb disabled the safety with a soft click.


End file.
